A Change Fine
by Pyrasaur
Summary: He had enough courage for this: he'd hate himself forever if he didn't. PhoenixMia


The change wasn't in him. Since his first glimpse of Mia through detention center glass, she was for Phoenix to respect and obey and be thankful for. She stood earth-solid, rumbled her strength and bore endless burden. She stood reliable, always ready with a glowing smile or a ghost of touch over Phoenix's arm.

Maybe the change came that first day in the office, when suit fabric still fought stiff against his movements, and his fingers drifted again to cool badge metal just to feel it there. Phoenix's words paled in memory -- something about client protocol -- and Mia was radiant, calm and autumnal in the long evening light, hands folded over her newspaper scraps and her head canted with intrigue. He knew that look; he knew the wisdom in her eyes. His heart ached with secrets already told, but Mia asked nothing else. Maybe she looked then for something entirely different.

Roles changed; undercurrents murmured the same.

He leaned over the washroom sink one morning, pulling errant hair through his fingers and watching it spring deviously back into a curl. However Phoenix had slept, he silently swore not to use that particular technique again. Door hinges murmured, and Mia's reflection approached, smile quirked like a poke between his ribs. Her hand alighted on his shoulder.

He asked if the client had arrived. No, she replied, there was time.

The cowlick bowed to Mia's will, to tap water and her expert hand brisk on his scalp. A smile spread warm and grateful on Phoenix, and he turned from their reflections; he met Mia's endlessly brown eyes, noticed warm touch through shirt's cotton and the precious little space between them.

She was proud of him, she said no louder than breath. And the air hummed electric, his pulse sped to thunder, destiny rose and crested and slipped away as Mia's smile turned coy. She turned; she left. Phoenix turned slow, leaned against sink porcelain and waited; the pink flush took an eternity to drain.

But Mia had plans, she conducted the score -- Fey and Co.'s front lock clattered loud in the hallway, and dinner hour's light draped Mia golden. She hoped, stowing keys in purse, that Phoenix could meet her sister soon. He got to meet her family, he wondered, and raked at his hair.

It left his mouth before he realized each layer of meaning, and Mia stopped to eye him; yes, she said, she would like that. There was her wise look, peeling back the suit, lifting rusted chains and finding something loftier than a rookie chasing a wild hope. He couldn't imagine _what_. Flush began a hot crawl over his face.

She'd say it for him, Phoenix, she was hoping for more -- a smile so warm and his hand clasped between both of hers, the air once more electric. He managed her name, in a stammer not his own voice.

And the magnet's pull began, his fluttering heartbeat a din, he stood fascinated by her slow-smirking lips and grabbing for the strength to move. Her grasp left and come on, she said, she'd drive him home. Mia turned, hair swishing, and he followed -- numb, regret-sore, rubbing sweat's cold prickle from the back of his neck. He had enough courage for this; he'd hate himself forever if he didn't.

The ride home blurred by outside his head, and as the car murmured to a stop on crunching gravel, Phoenix decided -- he had no idea what, but he decided.

He formed her name, sure, no stammering. She watched, knowing: meeting that gaze turned painful and he unbuckled his seatbelt, watched his hands fall useless into his lap. The car's interior smelled like upholstery and stale summer heat and faintly like her hairAdvice ran together in his head -- never dating a coworker, following one's heart, he shut them all out. Destiny coiled around his throat and he licked his lips, and began.

He didn't know how it would work, Phoenix tried. But she _saved_ him, and showed him the way when he was clueless, and believed in him even when he made no sense. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he'd never forget that -- he'd be insane not to want more.

Setting it free hurt, pierced his racing heart and he looked over, met Mia's eyes. And Phoenix always felt the same when her face softened like that: sun-warmed, favoured and defended and loved.

Good, she murmured, that was good. Dream haze took over as she moved, clambered across the car seats to settle sudden in his lap. His hands crept around her waist's curve, his fingers laced with a forest of long hair between them and Phoenix's courage faded, long spent -- it didn't matter, Mia had enough for the both of them. Even as her fingers rested gentle on his jaw, even as she leaned in for the monumental first, she smiled proud.

That change was small, a fine tuning to strike a perfect note. Mia had been good at that. And Phoenix sat before dull paperwork, listening to Wright and Co. Offices hum silent -- never the same without her.


End file.
